Cait

CW: MDNI (NSFW) — König and how pathetically submissive he is

—

You’d always said how König had the prettiest eyes.

But fuck, if they aren’t even prettier when you’re sat on his cock and he’s looking up at you all fucked out and submissive.

You’d been at it for a little over an hour and a half now, bouncing on his fat cock like you were determined to drag him to the brink of madness.

You’ve absolutely succeeded.

Those blue eyes glazed over, pupils blown, sweat beaded on his forehead even though he’s put in little work. Sweet little whimpers and whines leaving his lips with every clench and glide of your wet walls.

Big hands gripped at your waist, fingers dug into your supple flesh like he had to use you as an anchor.

He’d already come three times, the glide of your cunt up and down his cock so slick and wet with the mix of your fluids. Creamy seed leaking out of you, pooling around the base of his cock. The plap plap plap of your bouncing obscene and loud in the quiet of your room.

“Schatzi- Please- I-I can’t- Don’t stop-“

“S-So good- I’ll be good for you-“

Begging and pleading. Telling you he’s too overstimulated but he keeps chanting don’t stop please as if you’re his lifeline.

His hips buck up weakly every now and again when you sink down fully on his cock, hips rolling so his cock stirred inside you. All his focus is on the blissful clench of your pretty pussy, the way you’re dwindling him to nothing but a pitiful mess.

He doesn’t have the ability to even tell you when his next orgasm rolls through him. His body tensing, stomach clenching as his hips jerk up sporadically. Cock jerking inside you as spurts of his creamy seed fill you once again. Babbling nonsense because he’s so fucked out.

CW: NSFW (MDNI) — Keegan and he’s an absolute munch

—

Keegan in all his glory?

A munch.

Face buried between your thighs, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s savoring every last taste of you. Big arms wrapped under your thighs and over your lower stomach so he can keep you right where he wants you.

He’s absolutely a munch at heart. The kind of man to seal his mouth around your clit and suck in pulses that has your hips canting off the bed, grinding into the wet suction.

Making a mess of himself. His lips, chin, and cheeks wet with your arousal. Slick and shining because he’s got his face buried in your cunt. All in you.

“Grind this pretty pussy on my face baby, that’s it. Fuck, ‘m gonna eat this pussy all night.”

“Y’taste so good baby, s’sweet for me. Gonna make y’cum all over my tongue.”

“Can’t get enough of this sweet cunt, all mine yeah? All fuckin’ mine.”

Pulling your hips up, bent over with his mouth latched to your cunt and eating as if you’re his favorite meal. (You are.) Tongue dragging down to your seeping hole, swirling so he gets a good taste before dragging back up to your clit just to make you mewl.

And when you inevitably come undone for him, twitching and crying out, he pulls you against his mouth that’s latched over the entirety of your pussy. Sucking and slurping at you, drawing out every last drop, every last twitch and whimper.

He doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his head away multiple orgasms in, trying so damn hard to get every bit of you that he can before you’re sensitive and trembling.

CW: Smut (MDNI) — Graves and sharing is caring

—

Graves doesn’t seem like the kind of man to share.

Oh boy, he is though.

His pretty little girlfriend bent over the desk in his office, skirt bunched up at your hips, top pulled down so your breasts spill free.

If one of his Shadows walked in while he’s buried balls deep inside your dripping cunt? Graves absolutely isn’t stopping.

He’d keep thrusting, your cunt squelching loud enough he knows the Shadow standing at the door can hear it. And he’d revel in it, cock bullying against your sweet spot just to make you whine for him, breasts bouncing for the Shadow to see.

“She’s a pretty thing, ain’t she? Just whines and drools for my cock like it’s the only thing keepin’ her sane.”

“You hear how wet she is? Filthy little cunt. And the way she’s grippin’ my cock — fuck, darlin’, you determined to make me bust right here?”

“Look at her tits bounce. You want a feel, don’t you? That pussy’s squeezin’ ‘round me, darlin’, you want it too, dontcha?”

Teasing you with the thought of letting all his Shadows watch as he fucks you stupid, just to feel your cunt squeeze so tight around him.

When you cum around his cock, sweet little pussy fluttering and squeezing him, he knows it’s the filth he’s grunting in your ear. Rough hands holding your hips steady as you try to buck against him.

“Fuck, darlin’, that’s it, cum on my cock. Y’like the thought of me sharin’ ya, huh?”

“Y’d look so pretty all fucked out and covered in cum, darlin’.”

“Gonna let the boys have their way with you, leave ya full and sated. Y’want that, darlin’?”

He’d bury his thick cock as deep as it’ll go, fat cockhead pressed right against your cervix as he lets go. Thick white ropes of seed painting your insides, marking you with him. Heavy grunts against your ear as he bends over you and tells you just how good you are for him.

CW: NSFW MDNI — Gaz and his need to fuck you anywhere you are

—

Gaz is a softer kind of man.

But in that same sense, Gaz also takes absolute pleasure in getting you off in the most random places.

Bent forward against the wall of a changing room, your back arched as his cock slides in and out of you. He’d grip your hips, hold you in place, and fuck you quiet but so good.

Of course you’d have to be quiet, can’t risk getting caught. But Gaz lives for that thrill.

He’d angle his thrusts to hit that spongey sweet spot deep inside that drives the sweetest little noises from your mouth. Almost like he’s trying to sabotage you.

Whispering the filthiest, but sweetest things in your ear:

“Y’r s’tight, love. Wanna hear you cum f’me, yeah?”

“Know y’wanna make noise so bad right now, bein’ s’good bein’ quiet.”

“C’mon baby, cum all over my cock, let me feel you since I can’t hear you.”

Fuck, he’d do anything to hear you come apart on him. Driving in and out of you at a pace that would usually have you mewling. The only sound audible is the wet squelch of his cock thrusting in and out of you because of course, you like this too.

CW: Smut (MDNI) — Simon and making you cum so much you cry

—

Simon and sex?

It’s an all night ordeal.

You’re already three orgasms deep and he’s still fucking into you from behind. One big hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you where he wants you, his other hand splayed wide around the juncture of your hip.

Using you as leverage to pull you back onto his thick cock over and over. Your hips tilted so he’s driving as deep as he can, fat head of his cock bullying against your cervix.

The tears you let out, the sobs and whines only fuel him. You’d think they’d make him stop, but they don’t.

Of course he checks on you,

“Y’r doin’ so good for me, lovie.”

“Ya alright, bird? Takin’ my cock s’well, like a fuckin’ dream.”

“Can feel ya squeezin’ ‘round me. See those pretty tears. Y’want me to stop?”

You don’t actually tell him to stop and that’s all the confirmation he needs to keep going. He hasn’t even came yet, solely focused on breaking you down until you’re a mess of slick and drool and tears beneath him.

He’ll change positions, turn you onto your side, bring your leg up over one broad shoulder and never slide out in the process. Spreading you open wide for him, hips rolling slow at first to let you adjust before he’s pounding into your poor sloppy cunt once again.

He’ll move one big hand to cup your face, fingers squeezing into your cheeks just light of being painful and make you look at him. Cheeks flushed, lashes wet with tears, and he’ll coo at you.

“My pretty girl, takin’ what I give ‘er so well.”

“Made t’take my cock, aren’t ya?”

“Gonna make ya cum one more time, bird, one more f’me, yeah?”

He keeps his promise.

He makes you cum one more time, groans at the way you squeeze around him, slick all sticky between you. A white ring of frothy slick around the base of his cock from how many times he’s already made you cum.

But then he’d pull out, hold you spread open wide still and take his hand from your face to stroke his cock until he’s spurting thick white ropes over your ruined cunt. Creamy white roping over your puffy pink folds as you hiccup your relief from above.

CW: NSFW (MDNI) — Soap being versatile (and he equally loves to breed).

—

Soap’s a versatile kind of man.

One night he’s the one pinning you down, rutting into you like there is no end in sight.

The next night, though? He’s letting you pin him down and take what you need. He’s the one whining and pleading. Because sometimes he likes to be the one to let go.

Laid out on the bed as you sink down onto his cock, already whining like the pathetic man he is. Hands grabbing for your plush hips, trying to get you to move faster, sink down onto him completely.

When you swat his hands away, he’d whimper, look up at you with glossy blue eyes and beg.

“Please bonnie, I cannae handle it.”

“Need tae feel y’r cunt wrapped ‘round me, baby, please.”

“‘M losin’ it for ye bonnie, y’cannae see how badly I need ye?”

You finally sink down onto him and he’s moaning, head tipped back, hands clutching at your hips, at the sheets, at anything to try and keep himself afloat.

Your hips roll and he nearly busts right there.

He’d have to bite his lip, squeeze his eyes shut and focus so goddamn hard on not letting go because your pretty little pussy’s squeezing around him in ways he’s been dreaming of. Ways he’s needed.

You can always tell when he’s close. His brows knit together, his chest flushes all the way down past his nipples and he’s still fucking whining. Hands shaking, hips stuttering against yours.

Soap might be versatile, but he’s absolutely the type to beg to let him breed you. All flushed and whiny, looking up at you so pleadingly it makes your wet walls clench tight around him.

“Please baby, please- I-I need tae cum-“

“Can I cum inside ye please bonnie? Please ‘m dyin’ here.”

“Wanna fill y’r pretty pussy please-“

Broken off pleas until you give him the go ahead. And he’s moaning through it, head tipped back, jaw slack, thighs shaking. A proper mess of himself as he fills your squeezing cunt.

CW: MDNI — Price and his breeding kink

—

We all know Price is a breeding man.

But Price is definitely the type to put you in a mating press so he can slide his cock as deep as it’ll go. So he can feel the thick head of his cock kissing your cervix. So he can feel every flutter your poor cunt gives as he fucks you like it’s going out of style, lower belly bulging with the size and depth of him. So he can watch where his cock disappears inside your wet walls, swallowing him to the hilt over and over again.

He’s definitely the type to have you bent in half, feet practically up be your ears, knees pressed into your chest as he grunts about how he’s going to breed you.

“G’nna put a baby in this tight little cunt, yeah?”

“Fuck, y’re g’nna look so pretty all swollen and round with my kid.”

“Y’want that don’t you? Want me to pump this pussy full ‘til y’re leakin’ me?”

He knows no mercy when it comes to picturing you swollen with his child. Not with the way he’s bullying his cock as deep as it’ll go, fucking into your tight, wet heat like he might die if he doesn’t fill you up.

Big hands holding the backs of your thighs, keeping your hips tilted up as he fucks down into you. His thrusts faltering the closer he gets to cumming, but nonetheless fucking you through every whimper and whine.

And when he buries home and fills your tight hole, he won’t immediately pull out. He’ll let his cock sit, twitching inside you, panting heavy as he watches where the rim of your hole visibly flutters around him.

When he does finally pull out, he’ll keep you in that mating press, hips tilted high, empty cunt clenching around nothing. And if any of his seed drips out of you, he’ll absolutely fuck it back into you with his fingers.

John Soap MacTavish x fem!reader

TW: suicide, self harm, death

THIS IS YOUR SECOND WARNING. DO NOT READ AHEAD IF SUICIDE, SELF HARM, OR DEATH TRIGGER YOU!

-

Soap noticed long before she ever wanted him to.

Of course he did. Observant as hell, even if he’s sometimes the loudest person in the room, overflowing with excitement.

He noticed the quiet shifts. He noticed the way she tugged the hem of her sleeves over her knuckles to grip at them like they’d anchor her away from whatever was making her anxious. He noticed the way she always drifted out of conversations, subtle to others, but it stuck out like a sore thumb to him.

Ghoap x fem!reader smut

OR

John Price x fem!reader

pt.1 here

TW: NSFW (sex, cum eating, choking, creampie)

-

John promised he’d be there in the parking lot of the club at 3am.

She wasn’t at all surprised to see him. Knew he’d show because he’s been eye-fucking her for months now.

What did surprise her?

One rough hand pinning her to the backseat of his truck by her throat, his other big hand pressing firm at her lower stomach as he pummeled his thick cock into her sopping wet cunt all but five minutes after 3am.

There’s a light sheen of sweat covering her skin, her lips parted with wheezy moans that go straight to John’s cock.

God’s, he’s dreamed of this for weeks.

“Fuck, look at this pretty lil’ cunt, suckin’ my cock in so fuckin’ greedy,” Her walls squeeze around him with those words. So fucking filthy. But goddammit, she loves it so much.

She can’t get out much of a response between her moans and his hand around her throat. He’s squeezing just enough to make talking and breathing difficult, but not enough to completely close her airway.

“U-Uh huh-“ She manages to whimper out and John’s grinning.

“Stretched so fuckin’ perfect ‘round my cock, were made for this, huh? Made to be split open on my dick?”

She swears she’s going to black out from how good it is. The rhythmic plap plap plap of skin on skin fills the cabin of John’s truck, and she’s sure it’s rocking to the rhythm too.

His hand on her stomach moves, gripping the back of one knee and hiking her leg up, changing the angle of his thrusts and —

“Ri-Right there-!” She cries out hoarsely, back bowing off the leather seats, breasts bouncing so fucking perfect for him.

The blunt head of John’s cock is plowing right against that spongey spot deep inside that steals the air right from her lungs. Slick walls clamping down around him.

Her orgasm takes her for all she’s worth.

Screaming John’s name all wheezy and perfect, both of her hands gripping at the wrist of his hand around her throat as he fucks her through every pulse of blissful pleasure.

“S’goddamn tight, dove - gonna make me flood this pretty lil’ pussy-“ He grunts out, thrusts faltering, eyes fixating on where his cock disappears in and out of her cunt. A white froth of her own slick forming at the base of his cock, the sound of sticky skin meeting.

Heaven’s above, he won’t last.

His hips twitch, thrusts faltering before he’s burying to the hilt inside her spasming cunt and the first spurt feels like ecstasy. He groans through it, rough sounds as he rolls his hips, like he’s trying to push every last drop as deep as he can.

And when he pulls out, he keeps her thighs spread and watches with rapt attention as her hole flutters. That first thick gush of his seed spilling out of her and he pants out a curse.

“S’fuckin perfect- Such a good girl,” he growls.

Before she can even process it, he’s surging down, tongue dragging through her puffy folds, slick with their mixed fluids, groaning against her sensitive skin.

Her hips twitch and she whines, his hand that had been on her throat now holding her other thigh up and out, no choice but to let him have his way. One of her hands moves down to tangle in his hair, pulling at the strands.

“Too- Too much-“ She gasps out, but she doesn’t dare push him away.

Not when his lips seal around her clit, sucking at the sensitive nub until her thighs shake under his hands and her moans fill the truck again.

He eats like a man starved. Like this is the last meal he’ll ever have again. Messy and filthy. Spit and mixed fluids smearing through his beard, tongue working over her clit then down to her clenching hole where more of his seed seeps out.

He doesn’t stop until her moans pitch high, her back arching off the seats again, and he feels the gush of her slick against his tongue. Salty but sweet and so goddamn addicting.

-

John Price x dancer!reader

TW: NSFW

-

The thump of music is enough to rattle the ice in John’s drink on the small table in front of him. Sweat and alcohol thick in the air, the movement of bodies to the music playing. There are several stages, women dressed in outfits that would make a priest keel over. Lights that flash, that strobe over the half-naked bodies in front of him.

But John’s eyes are focused on one woman only.

The way her hips sway, the dip of her waist, the round curve of ass when she dips down to strategically grab bills from the floor of the stage she’s on.

John’s been in this damn club more than he’d like to ever admit to anyone outside of these walls. But he can’t keep himself away.

How is he supposed to when she looks at him like she’d give him her soul?

He isn’t sure when the song ends and she leaves the stage, his focus on her and the thought of his hands on soft legs, thick hips, his breath on her ear when he tells her all the filthy things running through his mind.

She emerges from the back of the club minutes later, a different outfit. His favorite. Some lace number he’d dropped off for her weeks ago, begged her to wear in his own way. And here she was.

Hips swaying as she strides to him, walking with a confidence that speaks louder than words. He lowers his glass back to the table just as she’s a few steps away.

They’re far past ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s, so when she settles herself on his lap, straddling him with her arms draping loose over his shoulders? John’s not at all surprised, but it still makes his pulse jump.

Calloused hands find the sides of her knees, sliding up along the outside of her smooth thighs, stopping just short of letting his hands wander to her ass. He knows his limits here in the club.

“You plannin’ on killin’ me with this outfit, dove?” His voice comes out lower than he intended, thumbs brushing over the crease of her hips.

The grin that spreads across her glossy lips makes his pants tighten in a way he’s become far too accustomed to. The red and purple lights flashing through the club accentuate the best parts of her — the dip of her cheekbones, the sharp line of her jaw, the fullness of her lips.

Fuck.

“Should I take it off, then?”

It’s only six words, but they nearly undo him in a fraction of a second. The way she practically purrs them out, voice like silk and sin wrapped in one. His hands tighten on her hips, eyes darkening beneath the vivid lights as he tilts his head slightly to look up at her.

“Careful, dove, you’re pushing into territory I don’t think you’re ready for.” He growls the words, but fuck, if he doesn’t want to see her without it on. To graze his hands over every inch of her. His lips too. Memorizing every dip and curve of her.

It drives him insane, that little gleam in her eyes because she knows she’s pushing boundaries, pushing the limit with him. And she likes it.

“You don’t think I can handle it?” Her glossy bottom lip juts out in a pout and Christ, John’s cock twitches beneath her. He knows she feels it because that pout turns into a downright devilish grin.

His fingers flex on her hips, hands sliding back down and stopping mid-thigh, fingertips digging into plush skin just short of leaving marks.

“Not that I think you can’t handle it,” John’s voice is low, careful, his eyes flickering over her face, down her neck and over the expanse of her breasts just right there. So close he could almost taste them. “Do you think you deserve it?”

She lets out a smooth hum, leaning in to whisper in his ear, body shifting, an innocent little move of her hips against his just to tease. Enough to have his brain short circuiting for a moment until she speaks again.

“I could show you better than I could tell you.” Her lips brush his ear with the whisper, gloss smearing just slightly against his skin and his cock twitches again. Goddammit this woman. “Tonight? I’m off at 3.”

John’s absolutely going to walk out of this fucking club with a hard-on.

“I’ll be out in the parking lot at 3.” His eyes meet hers when she pulls back to look down at him, that same devilish grin still on her lips and that pretty fucking gleam in her eyes.

“Good boy.” She purrs and fuck if John doesn’t want to bend her over this chair and show her just how good he can be. How good he can make her scream.

She brushes a kiss to his cheek, just above where his beard starts and he wants to turn his head, catch her lips with his, swallow her noises like he needs them.

But she’s lifting from his lap, giving him a wink before strutting away. He shamelessly watches her go, the sway of her hips, the power behind her steps making her ass bounce just enough to make him adjust the front of his jeans. Already achingly hard and his briefs damp with a spot of precum.

Taskforce 141 x reader

TW: mentions of death, grief

-

The gunshot never left her.

It came back in flashes, the metallic snap of Makarov’s pistol, the way Soap’s body jerked before collapsing, the crimson bloom spreading too fast across the concrete. She could still hear herself screaming his name, feet slipping on blood as she ran to him, hands pressing uselessly against the wound she knew was fatal. Johnny, stay with me. His eyes had still been open. Blue and glassy, searching for something — or maybe someone — before the light left them.

She remembered the world going quiet.

Everything after blurred. Ghost’s voice breaking through the comms, Gaz pulling her away from the body, Price shouting orders with blood on his hands. The mission hadn’t stopped, because it couldn’t. But she had. Part of her had died right there beside him.

Now, it was the silence that killed her.

The 141 base hadn’t been the same since. The walls still smelled like burnt coffee and gun oil, but the laughter had drained out of it. No more teasing remarks from the Scotsman echoing down the hall. No more jokes that even Ghost couldn’t ignore. Just echoes, memories where a man used to stand.

She kept his locker the way he left it. A dented can of Irn-Bru, a picture of the team folded and creased from being handled too often, a scratched-up lighter that didn’t work anymore. She didn’t have the heart to close it. Sometimes she stood there with her hand on the metal door, waiting for him to stroll in, grin splitting his face, and say, “Miss me, lass?”

But he never did.

Gaz tried to keep her grounded. He’d knock on her door before missions, offer her coffee, make light conversation that always seemed to die in the same places. They’d both skirt around the hole in the team’s rhythm, a gap where Johnny should’ve been. When she faltered in the field, Gaz’s hand was always there, firm on her shoulder, his eyes saying what words couldn’t. I miss him too.

Price buried it deeper. He never talked about it. Never said Soap’s name unless he had to. But she caught him once, late night, sitting alone in the command room, staring at a set of dog tags he kept tucked in his fist. He didn’t see her, and she didn’t say a word. She just stood there, silent, watching the Captain’s grief weigh him down. He’d led them all, but he couldn’t protect them all. The guilt was carved into the lines of his face now.

And Ghost — Ghost was the hardest.

She’d thought maybe they’d find comfort in each other. Shared loss, shared silence. But he pulled further away. The mask stayed on more often. He didn’t joke, didn’t linger, didn’t feel in front of anyone anymore. It was as if Soap had been the only one who could draw the man behind the mask into the light, and when he died, he took that light with him.

Still, she found him one night sitting outside the barracks, cigarette embers flickering in the dark.

“You should be asleep,” he said without looking at her.

“So should you.”

A pause. The sound of paper burning.

He exhaled smoke, long and slow. “Can’t.”

Neither could she. So she sat down beside him. The night air was cold and still, the stars like pinpricks in black velvet.

“He used to talk about you,” she whispered, voice breaking the silence. “Said you’d never admit it, but he knew you cared about him.”

Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then — “He talked too much.”

Her laugh cracked apart halfway through. “Yeah. He did.”

For a long time, they just sat there — soldier and shadow — bound by the absence of a man who’d kept them both alive longer than they deserved. Ghost finally ground the cigarette out between his fingers and said, “He wouldn’t want you stuck here. In this.”

“I know.”

“Then stop dying with him.”

The words hit her harder than any bullet ever had. She wanted to scream, to tell him that she couldn’t just stop. That grief didn’t have an off switch. That Soap wasn’t just gone, he was everywhere. In every laugh she couldn’t bring herself to join. In every stupid joke she started to tell but couldn’t finish.

But she didn’t. She just nodded.

Weeks turned into months. Missions came and went. Life, somehow, dragged her along with it. Some mornings were easier. Others weren’t. But the ache dulled, never gone, just quieter.

She still talked to him sometimes. In her head, in the quiet moments before dawn. Told him about missions, about how Gaz nearly blew up the drone again, about Price chewing them out, about Ghost trying to fill the silence but failing miserably.

And when the team deployed again, she found herself looking out over the horizon, the rising sun painting gold over the wreckage of another fight survived. She felt the warmth on her face and, for the first time, didn’t feel guilty for being alive.

“Miss you, Johnny,” she whispered to the wind.

A faint breeze brushed past her. A whisper, a ghost of laughter, a memory that refused to fade.

And she smiled, eyes burning. Because even if he was gone, she knew this much:

Soap MacTavish had never truly left them.

Not while the 141 still carried him forward, every step, every breath, every battle won in his name.

König x reader

-

KorTac didn’t “do” holidays. Not officially. But someone in command decided morale needed boosting, so a small, begrudgingly accepted Secret Santa exchange was organized. The rules were simple: draw a name, give a gift, keep your mouth shut about it unless confronted under threat of death or paperwork.

She didn’t mind. It was harmless, and after weeks of mud-slick ops and sleepless nights, the idea of something warm and human almost felt… nice.

When the exchange began, the break room buzzed with low chatter and the metallic scent of cheap tinsel. She wasn’t expecting much. Maybe a tactical pen, or a joke mug, or absolutely nothing if her Santa forgot.

But when her name was called, she was handed a neatly folded brown-paper parcel. No tag. No handwriting. No clue.

Inside was a compact, high-grade thermal balaclava, lightweight, moisture-wicking, and reinforced along the seams. The kind that wasn’t standard issue. The kind you bought because you wanted someone to have the best. And tucked beneath it, she found a small tin of medicated hand salve meant for cold-weather chapping.

Her breath caught.

It was thoughtful. Practical. Too perfect.

Someone had been paying attention.

She glanced around the room… and only one man wasn’t looking at her.

König stood in the corner, looming as always, massive arms folded, hood casting a shadow over half his face. He wasn’t avoiding her, not exactly, more like pretending she didn’t exist with suspicious intensity.

But he did that sometimes. To everyone.

It can’t be him, she told herself. He’d never gamble on something this personal.

Still… the idea lodged itself in her ribs like a dull blade.

-

She didn’t let it go.

Over the next two days, she asked around casually.

“Was it you?”

“Not me.”

“Gift’s too nice. Ask König.”

“Could’ve been him. He’s weird.”

König, when she finally found him in the weapons bay, was cleaning a rifle the size of a small tree. He didn’t look up when she approached, though she saw the way his shoulders tightened under the hood.

“Hey, König,” she said lightly. “Did you get anything good from the gift exchange?”

He shrugged, muttering, “Socken.” Socks.

Then a low grumble, “Zu klein.” Too small.

She bit back a smile. “Did you… get someone something?”

A beat.

Another.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Ja,” he said finally, voice thick, careful. “Something… useful.”

Her stomach dropped.

Useful.

Just like her gift.

“And who was your person?”

König stopped cleaning the rifle. The silence between them stretched tight, humming, and heavy. He kept his head down, but his fingers hesitated just slightly.

“Warum…?” he mumbled. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to thank whoever gave me mine.” Her voice softened. “It was thoughtful. They paid attention. I want them to know I appreciated it.”

He froze entirely.

Not even a breath moved him.

That was answer enough.

She stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating through his gear, see the way his chest rose a little quicker beneath the kevlar.

“König,” she said gently, “was it you?”

Slowly — painfully slowly — he lifted his head. His eyes, usually skittish, were impossibly wide and locked on hers.

“…Ja,” he whispered.

He looked like he expected to be reprimanded for it. Or laughed at. Definitely not thanked.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

He swallowed. “You… always cold on missions.” He gestured vaguely. “Hands. Face. You do not complain, but I see.”

He hesitated, then, softer, “I wanted… you not to suffer.”

Her chest warmed so sharply she almost lost her breath.

“König,” she murmured, “that’s… incredibly sweet.”

He jolted at the word sweet, his posture going stiff like he’d been shot.

“No! Not— not sweet.” His accent thickened, German spilling out in panic. “Ich bin nicht— I am not— I only meant—”

He huffed, defeated. “…Scheiße.”

She smiled, stepping even closer, barely a foot now between her and the mountain of a man. “It was sweet. And I’m glad it was you.”

He stared at her hand when she touched his forearm, like the contact short-circuited him.

“You… are glad?” he asked, voice barely a rumble.

“Yes.”

Something softened in him then, shoulders lowering, breath easing, eyes burning with a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

She held his gaze.

He didn’t look away this time.

“Then…” he said slowly, hesitantly, “maybe next year… I give you something again?”

A pause.

Quietly, “If you want.”

Her heart skipped.

“I’d like that,” she answered.

His eyes crinkled behind the mask. Shy, relieved, maybe even hopeful.

Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader

-

The city was quieter at night.

That was the only reason Simon ever came.

He told himself that, anyway.

The truth was, he always ended up on this same stretch of pavement, boots heavy, hood pulled low, watching the glow from her apartment window spill out over the snow. He didn’t need to be here. Hell, he shouldn’t be. But there was something about the way that light never seemed to go out that kept dragging him back.

Her world was soft. Gentle. It smelled like cinnamon and candle wax, not cordite and blood. He didn’t belong in it — a man made of silence and smoke — but that didn’t stop him from wanting to.

He stood across the street, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, breath clouding in the cold. A part of him wondered if she ever noticed the way the snow outside her window stayed disturbed, bootprints leading nowhere.

She’d left him a message earlier that week. Just a simple one: ‘You still out there somewhere?’

He hadn’t replied. Couldn’t. Because what was he supposed to say?

‘Yeah, love. I’m out here. Always am. Just not the kind of man you wait for.’

Still, here he was.

When her curtains shifted, his pulse jumped. She stepped into view, tugging an old hoodie over her head, his hoodie, he realized after a second. Faded black, worn soft at the sleeves. He’d left it behind months ago, the night he swore he wouldn’t come back.

And yet, here they both were.

She moved to the window, leaning on the sill, eyes scanning the street. For a moment, he thought she saw him, that she felt him there. Then she just sighed and looked down at her hands, rubbing warmth into her fingers.

He’d never been jealous of anything in his life, but right then, he envied the air around her. The warmth, the safety, the simple ease of it all.

He wanted that.

Wanted her.

But wanting didn’t change what he was.

Simon pulled off his glove and reached out, running his bare fingertips across the cold metal of the lamppost beside him, grounding himself in the sting of it.

He’d crawled through hell for missions that didn’t matter, waded through graves for men he didn’t trust, but the thought of crossing that street? Of knocking on her door? That scared him more than any battlefield ever had.

He tilted his head back, eyes closing beneath the shadow of his mask. “You don’t know what you do to me, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice a low rasp carried off by the wind. “And maybe it’s better you don’t.”

When he opened his eyes again, she was gone from the window. A light flicked off. Another stayed on, her bedroom, maybe.

He stood there for a long time, long after the cold started to bite at his skin.

Eventually, he turned to leave, one last glance over his shoulder, one last look at the light he could never touch.

As he walked away, snow crunching beneath his boots, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text.

“You were out there again, weren’t you?”

He stopped dead. The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the mask, something like a broken smile.

He typed back, slow and uncertain.

“Maybe.”

Three dots blinked. Then her reply came.

“Come up next time. You don’t have to freeze out there.”

He stared at the screen until the snow started covering his footprints again.

Then he pocketed the phone, whispered to no one, “Maybe next time, love.”

John “Soap” MacTavish x reader

a/n: a little short blurb :)

-

The night had that kind of quiet that only comes after the first heavy snowfall. Soft, thick, and still. The world around him had gone pale, but all Soap MacTavish could see was her.

He leaned against the hood of his truck, breath fogging in the bitter air, eyes fixed on the light spilling from her apartment window. It wasn’t much, just a dim glow framed by half-drawn curtains, but it was enough to keep him standing there longer than he probably should’ve. Enough to remind him what warmth looked like when the rest of his life was all frost and steel.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to want to be here. But somewhere between the gunfire and the ghosts, she’d found a way into the cracks of him, quietly, naturally, like sunlight sneaking past the blinds.

He thought about the last time he’d seen her, hair mussed from the wind, cheeks flushed, laughing at something he’d said that wasn’t even that funny. He’d never known someone so soft without being fragile. Someone who made him want to be gentle.

A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold. He’d crossed countries for missions that meant nothing compared to this moment, standing outside her place, heart pounding like it was trying to break out of his chest.

He’d crawl through the snow for her if she asked, bare hands and bleeding knuckles, didn’t matter. If she needed him, he’d go. If she wanted him, he’d stay.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, another mission, another call to leave, and he stared at it for a long time before letting it fall silent.

From the window, she moved. Just a silhouette, maybe making tea, maybe humming to herself. He couldn’t hear her, but he imagined it anyway.

Soap smiled faintly, a kind of ache in the curve of it. “You’ve no idea what you do to me, lass,” he whispered to the quiet, voice low and rough with something that wasn’t quite sadness.

He wanted to tell her everything. That he’d shout her name from the nosebleeds if that’s all he could ever be, that he’d freeze in the snow if it meant being close to her, that he was down for her in every way a man could be.

But for now, he just watched.

Watched her light flicker against the frost, warmth against the dark.

And when she finally opened the window just a crack, just enough for the cold to slip out and his heart to lurch, he swore she looked right at him.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

Her silhouette paused in the windowlight, hand hovering mid-air like she’d forgotten what she was doing. Snow drifted past her glass in lazy spirals, landing on his jacket, melting down the back of his neck. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

For a second, he thought about turning away, slipping into the night like he hadn’t been there at all. But he’d been gone too long, seen too much, and he was tired of leaving things unsaid.

So he raised a hand. Just a small wave. Nothing grand.

Still, it felt like the bravest thing he’d done in months.

She blinked, then smiled, slow, soft, surprised. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for explanations, just offered warmth. She disappeared from the window, and before he could think to doubt it, the front door opened.

“John?”

Her voice carried across the snow, warm against the cold. He swallowed hard, boots crunching as he stepped forward.

“Hey, lass.” His breath came out ragged, like her name had stolen the air right out of him. “Didn’t mean to wake ye.”

“You didn’t,” she said, pulling her sweater tighter around herself. “You’re freezing. What are you doing out here?”

Soap hesitated. There were a thousand answers, none of them simple. “Just… needed to see ye.”

She laughed under her breath, soft and disbelieving. “You could’ve texted.”

“Aye, could’ve,” he said, his accent rougher now, the way it got when his guard slipped. “But you might’ve said no.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Sadness, maybe, or something gentler. “And if I had?”

He looked down at the snow, scuffed the toe of his boot through it. “Would’ve stood here anyway. Guess I’m just that daft.”

The silence between them stretched. The only sound was the quiet fall of snow and the slow thud of his heart.

She stepped closer. He could see the reflection of the streetlight in her eyes, could smell the faint trace of her perfume, something warm and sweet that didn’t belong in the kind of world he lived in.

“John…” she started, and he could hear it, the worry, the question, the ache she didn’t know how to name.

“I’m not askin’ for anything,” he said quickly, voice low. “Just wanted ye to know… I’m proud of ye. Of the life you’ve built. I see it—how good it is. You’re… you’re light, love. And I’m just—” He laughed, a broken sound. “I’m just a fan in the nosebleeds, yeah? Clappin’ for ye from far away.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t say that.”

He shrugged, trying for easy, failing miserably. “It’s true enough.”

She took another step closer, close enough that he could feel her breath against his jaw. “You don’t have to stay far away.”

“Maybe not,” he said softly. “But it’s safer for ye if I do.”

She frowned at that, and something in him twisted. He reached up, brushing a bit of snow from her hair with trembling fingers. “I’d crawl through a bloody blizzard just to see that smile again. Doesn’t mean I should.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. He wanted to take them back and mean them all at once.

Her hand found his wrist, small and steady. “Then stay for tonight. Just tonight.”

He looked at her, really looked, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine what peace might feel like.

He nodded once, sharp and quiet, and followed her inside.

The door shut behind them, muting the world to nothing but the sound of melting snow and the heartbeat he’d been chasing all along.

And though he told himself it was just one night, he already knew, he’d fall for her again in the morning.